


Wanderer

by sonhoedesrazao



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, and music!, busker au, some angst but mostly a lot of fluff, warning for crappy descriptions of cities i've never been in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 19:37:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2320952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonhoedesrazao/pseuds/sonhoedesrazao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras first hears him in Prague, and doesn't know what it is about this blue-eyed sarcastic busker that makes him follow him around Europe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanderer

**i. Prague**

Enjolras first hears him in Prague. He’s on the phone with Combeferre, fuming about tourists (“Never mind I’m one of them!”) and lost in the crisscrossing cobblestone streets of the golden city, when he somehow emerges in Old Town square, as dusk falls over the twin towers of the Tyn church. Combeferre laughs softly on the phone when he gives a triumphant shout.

“I know where I am! _Finally_.”

“You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself, Enjolras.”

“I am,” he says, weaving between tourists crowding to see the Astronomical Clock chime, “but the _people_. And the streets here make no sense; I circled around the same square five times today! Yeah, all right, Courf,” he adds dryly when a familiar laugh tells him he’s on speaker. But he smiles despite himself. A week away and he already misses them.

“The price of sightseeing,” a sympathetic Combeferre says. “Other than that, how was your day?”

He’s about to reply when the voice reaches him, amplified by a microphone. A crowd of sitting and standing tourists is forming a circle whose center he can’t see, but guesses is the man whose voice has suddenly filled up the square.

“Enjolras?”

“Sorry, sorry. It was good,” he says, distracted. The man is singing a song he vaguely recognizes, a straightforward rendition with a husky voice.

Enjolras is not sure what makes him tell Combeferre, “I’ll call you later. Tell Jehan I decided to spontaneously stop and listen to some live music.”

“He’ll be delighted,” Combeferre says. “And do enjoy your vacation. We all miss you.”

The statement is said flatly, but Enjolras doesn’t question the truth of it one second, and is uncharacteristically touched by the sentimentality of it, alone and away from his friends for the first time in a long time.  

“Me too,” he says, and hangs up to the sound of Courfeyrac cooing on the background.

He moves past the outer circle of standing people to get a view of the singer. The man is perhaps a few years older than him, looking disheveled in his jeans and t-shirt, with his hair tousled as if he just woke up, but Enjolras is more struck by the way his eyes are downturned as he sings, completely lost in the song, playing the guitar with an ease that can only come from years of experience.

Enjolras sits on the ground and listens. It’s a bittersweet song, about hope despite a hard life, and every inflection is pure and just _right_ , as if the man wrote the song himself. He’s never been crazy about music, but as he listens now he thinks he understands what makes Jehan say things like “You can _feel_ the pain in his voice!”

The song ends and the busker looks surprised when the crowd erupts in applause, jolting a little as if he hadn’t been aware he was being watched.

Then he opens a wide, crooked smile, laughing softly on the mic.

“Wow, okay,” he says in English, with a slight accent, “you guys are great. Thank you,” he adds, when a couple of people step forward to throw some change in his open guitar case. “I haven’t introduced myself, have I? I’m R, and I just arrived in Prague, like some of you. I’d like to sing you some more songs, if that’s all right.”

Some more applause, and R smiles, looking at the crowd. Enjolras watches him, and then feels his breath hitch when R’s gaze reaches him—and stops. He feels as if R holds the stare a moment too long, but he must have imagined it. The man recovers—if there’s anything to recover from—and starts playing something else on the guitar, almost distractedly, as if deciding what’s his next song is going to be. “So here’s a autobiographical one,” he says, smirking, before tackling a song about a hobo.

Enjolras is sitting next to a group of teenage girls who keep whispering and giggling, and is profoundly annoyed, for whatever reason. He tries to tune them out as the musician goes from song to song, wondering how people can chat while the man is bearing his soul in front of them. He’s not an emotional person, but he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with it, with having your heart on your sleeve. He’s reminded of Courfeyrac, but this man is essentially different in that what he displays speaks of a deep sadness.

Enjolras can’t help but notice that R looks up now and then, during songs and in-between them, and that his eyes seem to purposefully find Enjolras’, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It makes him uncomfortable in a way he can’t explain, but he can’t get himself to leave—because R, somehow, is making him forget everything, all that drove him to leave Paris. For the hour that he plays, nothing else exists.

“So this is my last one,” R announces, and Enjolras is surprised to realize how opposed he is to the idea. The crowd complains, as if echoing his thoughts, and R laughs. “Sorry, but the clock is about to chime and my friend here,” he gestures to another busker, “is going to entertain you some more. Anyway, I’m going to end this set with a song I don’t know that well… if it sucks, please bear with me.”

The last part is said directly to Enjolras. He wants to smile, reassure R he won’t leave, but he’s too shocked by the whole thing—finding the man so compelling, being singled out like that—and can’t rearrange his features. He stares at R, who looks down and clears his throat, and starts a song Enjolras doesn’t recognize. It’s a more upbeat one, which he plays deftly despite what he claimed.

Then Enjolras pays attention to the words and feels his face burning.

The song is about being interested in a stranger.

“ _If you want to, I am game_ ,” R sings, and looks at him, and Enjolras is seized by panic.

 _You need to get some distance from it all_ , Combeferre said. _Meet some new people_.  

Right now the idea of speaking to R is terrifying, and he can’t even explain why. All he knows is that he seems to come back to himself suddenly, wake up from whatever trance he was in and realize he’s been staring at the man for an hour—no wonder he got the wrong idea. If he even got the wrong idea, if it was even Enjolras he’s been looking at. Maybe he’s just been craving company so much he imagined it. Yes, it must be that.

The song ends, R thanks the crowd again and Enjolras makes himself look down, to his own hands clenched into fists. He gets up and is about to leave when he realizes he never gave the busker anything, only feeling mildly annoyed whenever someone got in front of him to drop some money in the guitar case. He turns around.

R is gathering his things as the other musician—who Enjolras has no interest in—is setting up. He runs a hand through his already tousled hair and then glances sideways, finding Enjolras stuck to the spot. The musician raises an eyebrow, and he feels like an idiot.

It’s just a busker. Of course he wasn’t _singing to Enjolras_ , what is _wrong_ with him?

He approaches R, feeling he has his footing again.

“I forgot to leave something,” he says firmly.

R smiles. “It’s not required, you know.”

“I enjoyed the music.” R is shorter than him, and his eyes are very blue. He’s not handsome, yet Enjolras remembers reading a line somewhere about how fine eyes can enhance a face. That is certainly the case here.

Then he catches himself meditating on the busker’s eyes and quickly pulls a note from his pocket and drops it to the still open guitar case.

“So yeah, thanks.”

R does a double take, and laughs. “Apparently you enjoyed it a lot.”

Enjolras realizes just gave about 30 euros in the local currency. “Um.”

“You can take it back,” R laughs, reaching down for the money.

“No, no, that’s fine,” Enjolras says quickly, feeling flustered again. R straightens up and looks at him warily. “I did enjoy it. You’re very good.”

“Mediocre, at best,” R shrugs, pulling out a cigarette. “Hardly worth a hundred crowns.”

Enjolras hardly hears him, looking instead at the cigarette. He frowns. “You shouldn’t smoke. It’ll ruin your voice.” It’d be a terrible shame if that happened, he doesn’t add.

“You disapprove?” R asks.

“It’s not that I _disapprove_ ,” Enjolras says, “I’m just stating a fact.”

R looks amused, which irks him. “Well, thank you for your donation. I’ll consider your input.”

Enjolras scowls. It would’ve been better to walk away, he muses.

“Great.” He turns, but R’s voice stops him.

“Who do I thank?”

“What?”

“Your name,” R clarifies, that grin still in place. “You have mine.”

“I have a letter.”

“A letter that is a name. I’m Grantaire.”

Enjolras notices two things—first, that that is a French-sounding name; and second… “Is that a pun?” he asks, in French.

R laughs sheepishly. “Oui.”

“I’m Enjolras.”

It makes no sense to introduce himself, given they’re about to never see each other again. But then R continues, in perfect French, “How are you finding Prague, Enjolras?”

He says the name slowly, shaping the word in his lips as if it’s part of a song.

“Crowded,” he replies. “Where are you from?”

“Paris.”

“Oh. Me too.”

The other musician starts playing, but Enjolras ignores him completely. Still, R doesn’t say anything and he’s never been good with small talk. “Well. I should be going.”

“Big plans for tonight?”

“Got to call my friend,” he answers without thinking. “I mean, I promised I would and…”

“I’m sure your friends would forgive you for having dinner.” Enjolras frowns and R continues, almost shyly, “If you’re interested? I know some not crowded places in town.”

He ignores the way the invite makes his throat constrict and instead points out, “You said you’d just arrived.”

“Not for the first time,” R clarifies, again with a grin. “Come on.”

The busker gathers his money and closes the guitar case, slinging it over his shoulder. Then he starts walking and talking, leaving Enjolras no choice but to follow.

“I always end up back in Prague, I love it. When the tourists go to bed, there’s not a more romantic city in the world. Don’t you think?” Grantaire moves expertly in those very same streets Enjolras got terribly lost inn the whole day, turning left and right without pausing to think or check a map or _anything_ , and Enjolras is certain he’ll never find his way back. “Apparently not,” Grantaire says, peering at him.

“It’s a historical city,” he says, diplomatically.

R breaks out in laughter. As they move away from the center of the town, the streets become quieter, more peaceful, and Enjolras cedes, “I guess I can see the charm.”

“No, you are not a romantic, I can tell,” Grantaire says. “What brings you here, then?”

He shrugs. “Things.”

“All right, you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. We can talk… we’re here,” he interrupts himself, motioning to a door belonging to a very old building. There are lights on inside, which shine through small curtained windows, but no indication whatsoever that this is a restaurant or a bar or anything. Yet Grantaire simply opens the door and motions him in.

“Is this… open?”

“Yes, Enjolras.” Again his name, every syllable spoken with care. “Come on, let me buy you dinner with your own money.”

Enjolras realizes, suddenly, he knows nothing about this man, who’s taken him to an unknown location in a strange city, and blurts out, “I have fight training, you know.” Bahorel made sure they all did.

R grins widely. “Feel free to tackle me to the ground, like, whenever.”

Enjolras huffs and follows him down a narrow staircase to the basement of a house, which apparently is a real restaurant, with actual patrons. The brick walls are illuminated with lamps hanging from the ceiling over each table, and Grantaire finds them a table for two. There is no shouting or laughing there, just quiet conversations in a language he doesn’t understand.

“The locals love this place,” Grantaire explains. “This woman I met took me here once, and I’ve been coming ever since. Ah, hello,” he turns to a waiter, in English again, with some Czech words here and there, and when Enjolras says it’s fine, orders wine and food for the both of them.

“So you always take strangers you find in the crowd here?” Enjolras asks casually.

“Nah. Some of them I take home directly.”

Enjolras blushes indignantly, almost dropping the fork he’s been fiddling with.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” R says quickly, moving as if to touch his arm, but then sitting back and running a hand through his hair. “Sorry, never mind me, I’m not funny. This isn’t… I swear I didn’t mean anything by it. Where were we? Ah, yes, not talking about you. What shall we talk about instead? Art? Music? The weather?”

“I don’t know much about art and music,” he admits. “Nor the weather, I suppose.”

R grins. “I could talk for us both, but you’d leave before the food arrived. What do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“College. Poli Sci.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows go very high. “Do you intend to be a politician, Enjolras?”

“I intend to be a revolutionary,” Enjolras says, and waits.

Grantaire neither laughs nor scoffs. Instead, his very blue eyes gleam as he looks Enjolras over in silence, his lips curled in the softest smile, as if he’s seeing something wondrous. “I see,” he murmurs. Then, returning to his regular, somewhat sarcastic tone, “How’s that working out for you?”

The wine is set in front of them, and Enjolras tries not to sound too combative, but it’s hard when you’ve had the same conversation so many times. They echo in his head now, as he says, “I have plans.”

And because Grantaire just sips at his wine, he goes on to tell him about Les Amis and the work they do, and the work Enjolras hopes they will do in the future. Grantaire looks enraptured, but all his hopes of having made an ally out of him are dashed when he finally speaks.

“High goals. I myself aim only to be a lowly musician.”

Enjolras frowns. “You’re good. You could be more than this.”

“I never said I was dissatisfied,” Grantaire corrects. “This suits me quite well.”

“Asking for money in the streets?” Enjolras flinches as soon as the words are out of his mouth. “I didn’t mean…”

“Precisely,” Grantaire agrees, but his smile is no longer as genuine and unguarded. The air between them becomes heavy and tension falls like a curtain between them. “A life of begging suits me.”

“I didn’t mean it like that! I’m just saying you could record albums, and… have a career.”

“Make an album of covers?”

“Do you not write your own songs?”

He catches Grantaire there. The musician looks away. “They’re terrible, though,” he laughs, and Enjolras catches the self-deprecating tone he’s starting to recognize every time Grantaire speaks of himself. “This way I can travel and make people happy for an hour or two. Not as lofty a goal as yours, but keeps me occupied.”

“Do you ever play your original songs?”

Grantaire just shakes his head, no longer looking at him. Enjolras leans forward, elbows on the table.

“Then how do you know they’re not good?”

“Why do you seem to think they are?” Grantaire turns to him.

“You remind me of a friend,” he admits. “A poet. You have the same… air.” That’s a terrible description, but Enjolras is not sure how to explain whatever it is about Grantaire and Jehan that marks them as artists. He thinks suddenly that he’d like to introduce them.

Grantaire laughs softly. “I am no poet.”

“Jehan—my friend—says artists are their worst judges,” Enjolras continues. “You can’t correctly assess your own work.”

“Jehan might have a point, but I’m just fine. You’re the one wanting to give me ambitions.”

Their food arrive, and Enjolras swallows his reply. Why does he care what Grantaire does with his life, anyway? Still, he can’t understand it.  

“When do you go back? Home, I mean?”

“I don’t,” Grantaire says. “Been on the road these past five years.”

“Five years?” Enjolras has been removed from everyone he knows and loves for a week and is going mad. “How can you stand it? Don’t you miss it?”

“There’s nothing for me there,” Grantaire replies, matter-of-factly. Enjolras suddenly feels sad, wanting to probe further but knowing it’s none of his business. “Well, there’s Ep,” Grantaire adds, “but she’s got her own life.”

“Who’s that?”

“My oldest, dearest friend,” Grantaire says with a warm smile and no irony, and it makes something flare in Enjolras’ chest, which he pushes down immediately.

Grantaire talks about Eponine and he ignores how it makes him feel better to know they’re not together. He in turn tells Grantaire about Combeferre and Courfeyrac, about founding Les Amis and meeting the rest of group—Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly. Grantaire seems delighted when he tells him about Marius accidentally finding them and staying, and about Bahorel’s… everything, really.

Then Enjolras’ cell rings loudly in the subdued restaurant.

He fumbles to answer it, and then thinks it’s probably rude to do so in the middle of dinner—even if it’s not, you know, a thing or anything—so instead of Hello, he says “I’m sorry!”

“THANK GOD YOU’RE ALIVE,” Courfeyrac shouts on the other end of the line. “Wait, why are you apologizing?”

“Not to you!”

Grantaire laughs softly.

“Oh. _Oooooh_ ,” Courfeyrac repeats, slowly and meaningfully. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No. Well, yes, I’m having dinner.”

“With someone?”

Enjolras hesitates. “Yes.”

“Oh my god. _Oh my god_.”

“I’m hanging up now!”

“We thought you were dead, but you’re on a date!”

He flinches, because this is _not_ a date, also because Courfeyrac’s voice is so loud he fears Grantaire—and the whole restaurant—might have caught that. He peaks at Grantaire, who just looks like he’s waiting patiently for him to hang up.

“Got to go, Courf, call you later.”

“DON’T DO ANYTHING I WOULDN’T DO!”

“ _Bye_.”

He turns his phone off, just in case, and feels his face hotter as he turns to Grantaire.

“So that was Courfeyrac,” Grantaire notes.

“Yeah. Just… checking in.”

It’s impossible to know what Grantaire is thinking, what the glint in those very, very blue eyes mean. They order dessert and Grantaire, true to his word, pays for dinner with Enjolras’ money. When they go out into the chillier night air the city is definitely quieter, and Enjolras finds himself flustered. He doesn’t know what to say. Thanks? See you… never again?

They stand awkwardly until Grantaire says, “How about a walk?” His voice is almost a murmur, and his hand twitches, as if wanting to hold that cigarette he pocketed after Enjolras’ comment. “I can just leave you at wherever you’re staying, of course, but if you’re up to it… I can show you around. The city is beautiful at night, and much quieter. Soon we might actually be able to walk in Charles bridge.”

Grantaire already knows he doesn’t have any plans, but Enjolras is sure he could turn the offer down and he’d be true to his word. Yet the night is pleasant and Grantaire, though frustrating and contrary at times, is not at all unpleasant company.

Grantaire truly knows the city—not just his way around but the history of it too, and Enjolras feels like he’s having a very unexpected and free tour. They’re not the only ones on the streets, but by the time they make their way back to the river there are indeed fewer people around. They start crossing the bridge freely, without having to dodge tourists, with an unimpeded view to the castle. The cathedral glows on the top of the city, and a bright moon glimmers on the river.

“All right,” Enjolras cedes. “I suppose you have a point.”

Grantaire laughs quietly. “I’ll make a romantic out of you yet.”

“I wouldn’t go _that_ far.”

But as they stop at the middle of the bridge, between two of the looming statues, Enjolras thinks—if only to himself—that there is a kind of poetry to be found in nights like these, and wouldn’t Jehan laugh if he saw him now? Grantaire starts talking about the castle, but Enjolras only half listens, realizing with a sinking feeling this will all be over soon.

“Will you sing tomorrow?” he asks suddenly.

Grantaire stops what he’s saying and turns to him, a pensive look in his face. “That’s the plan.”

“How long are you staying?”

“Only a few days. Then I move on.”

“Oh.”

They fall silent. It’s like some spell has been shattered with the mention of reality, and Enjolras berates himself for feeling unsettled, for letting himself get carried away like this.

“Where will you go next?”

“Poland. Wroclaw, probably, haven’t been there in a while.” Silence falls again, nothing but the sound of passing voices on the bridge, until Grantaire suddenly fills it with a stream of words that leave him in a breath, like a confession—which he says to the river more than to Enjolras, eyes fixed on the still waters. “I was in college for a while. Art. But I dropped out. I was too strung out to go to classes and even when I did the teachers hated my work, so I thought, what’s the point? The chances of being a successful artist are already slim when you’re any good and not drunk off your ass. So I quit, sold everything, which was basically nothing, and bought a mic. Started playing in Paris until I had enough to start going around, and started travelling. Sometimes I had enough to pay for a room, sometimes I just… improvised. Then I got robbed in Rome. Got too drunk, passed out on the ground and woke up penniless. Thank god they just took the money and not the guitar. Still, had to phone Ep and borrow some cash, and I thought… I thought, never again. So I quit. I shouldn’t have drunk tonight.” He pauses, scratches the stubble on his chin. “That’s my story, mediocrity and failure. I’m nothing like your friend, Enjolras.”

He doesn’t know what to say. That is, there is _too much_ he wants to say, to ask, but he knows he doesn’t have any right to. Grantaire has shared what he’s willing to, and that will have to be enough. And anyway… anyway, he’s just a guy Enjolras has met on a trip, who will move on in a few days, as will he. Yet he can’t help himself, it’s not in him to be silent. “Everybody fails,” he says. “Doesn’t mean you don’t have potential. Grantaire—”

“Don’t, please,” Grantaire pleads, turning to face him. “This has been the best night I’ve had in a while, and I’d rather we didn’t ruin it. Let me deliver you safe and sound to wherever you’re saying and we can call it a night.”

That’s the last thing Enjolras wants to do, but Grantaire has been clear. Still, he looks at Enjolras beseechingly, as if he might reconsider, beside himself, if Enjolras argues. It’s tempting, but Enjolras feels, in a strange and fearful way, that he better be cautious and not pry too deeply. For whose sake, he couldn’t say.

“All right,” he says, and they finally move, crossing the rest of the bridge further apart than they’ve stood all night.

*

He’s jittery the following day as he does some sightseeing, knowing his mind isn’t in the right place for it. If someone was there to demand the truth, he’d have to admit he’s just willing time to pass so it can be time for Grantaire to perform again, but with a lack of friends around, he manages to convince himself otherwise—even when he finds himself on the square much earlier than the day before, mind full of things he’s spent all day thinking about saying to Grantaire.

But Grantaire doesn’t show up.

Eight o’clock comes and goes, and nine, and ten, and Enjolras has gotten up and sat down countless times, walked around the square, even ventured into some of the side streets Grantaire took him the night before. The square begins to empty when he finally accepts Grantaire isn’t coming, and his mind whirls with possibilities all the way back to the cheap hostel he’s staying at. Considering the possible motives for Grantaire’s absence—including the chance he lied to Enjolras, for whatever reason—is better than letting himself dwell on the nauseous feeling he’s experiencing now, a helpless agitation that is unlike anything he’s ever felt.

He didn’t even get Grantaire’s number.

 _There’s no reason to be upset_ , he tells himself _. Even if he’d shown up, what would you have said? Asked him to tell you his life story? Told him yours? For what purpose? He’d still be gone, sooner or later._

Grantaire would become a nice memory, of blue eyes and quiet laughter in the quiet streets of Prague, and Enjolras would move on.

*

The next morning, he wakes up and realizes with absolute clarity there is nothing he wants to do or see in the golden city. He leaves Combeferre a quick message and catches a train to Poland, telling himself it’s as good a place as any and that it doesn’t mean anything.

 

 **ii. Wroclaw**  

“Wasn’t the idea that I did something spontaneous?” Enjolras asks. He speaks loudly over the sound of arriving and departing trains and the buzz inside the station. “That I ‘let it go’? I distinctly remember Courf singing that damn song a hundred times.”

Combeferre answers carefully. “Yes, but this is slightly _too_ spontaneous, no? You only stayed a couple of days in Prague.”

“There wasn’t that much to see,” he says, sounding unconvincing even to himself.

“Does this have anything to do with your… date?” Combeferre risks.

“It wasn’t a date!” he protests immediately. “Like I told you, it was just _dinner_. Courfeyrac is… romanticizing things.” Probably a good thing Enjolras didn’t tell him about the whole moonlight tour and bridge confessions.

“All right, all right,” Combeferre says, reassuring as if he’s dealing with a wild animal. “You just decided to pack up and go to Wroclaw, Poland. That makes sense.” His tone indicates that makes absolutely no sense, and that Enjolras is an idiot for trying to lie to him.

But if he tells Combeferre, he’ll have to tell Courfeyrac, and then he’ll never hear the end of it. Besides, it’s nothing like what they think. Enjolras just has _things_ he wants to say to Grantaire, and the busker left before Enjolras could say them. As soon as he speaks his mind, he’ll be free and be able to walk away, this weight in his chest lifted.

“Anyway,” he says, changing the subject, “tell Feuilly I’ll bring him souvenirs.”

“He’ll like that,” Combeferre says. “And Enjolras?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

As is often the case when speaking with his friend, Enjolras is not sure how many layers of meaning his words carry.

“Of course.”

The sun is beginning to go down in Wroclaw, and he unfolds a map he just picked up to find the nearest hostel and drop his things. The city is pleasant, with its wide streets very unlike the alleyways of Prague, and Enjolras focuses on his surroundings, avoiding any deeper thoughts such as what the hell he is doing in Wroclaw, Poland. Once he’s rid of his bag, he makes his way to Market Square—because it’s the center of the city and a historical place, of course, not because it’s likely the spot a busker would choose to play.

 _My bullshit radar is pinging, Enjolras_ , he can almost hear Courfeyrac say.

The square is easy to find and actually distracts him from his current train of thought with its red-roofed, colorful houses, in front of which there’s a bustle of movement. Then he hears a guitar playing, and the rest of the city might as well have disappeared as he swivels towards the direction of the music.

The crowd around Grantaire is not as large as it was in Prague, but a good dozen people stand around him as he plays familiar notes.

“ _So, so you think you can tell, heaven from hell_ ,” Grantaire sings, and his voice run through Enjolras like an electric current. The two days since he last heard it seem an incredibly long time, and he approaches slowly, taking in Grantaire’s worn-out jeans, his hands on the guitar, the way his t-shirt clings to his arms and his muscles flex as he plays. He’s never paid this much notice to a person before, but he assumes it’s the threat of never seeing him again that is making him want to save an image of Grantaire in his mind. His hair is still tousled, he notes, amused.

Then Grantaire looks up and he thinks, rather dumbly, that his eyes are still blue.

Grantaire misses a note at the sight of him, and the music stops suddenly. He recovers after a second, fingers moving again and voice resuming so seamlessly you’d think he intended to play it just like that. But he doesn’t raise his eyes again until the end of the song, and carefully avoids looking in Enjolras’ direction as he thanks the applause from the small crowd.

Enjolras feels his stomach sink as he considers Grantaire might be not only bemused, but bothered at his presence.

 _What the hell am I doing here?_ he thinks, but quickly crushes that thought, listing all the very legitimate, non-creepy reasons why he’s gone to Poland after a guy he met one night.

Grantaire drinks from a bottle of water and tells the crowd, “I’ll be back in ten, guys, thank you,” and turns his guitar so it’s against his back at the same time he finally turns to Enjolras, a grin on his face. When they meet in the middle, he says, “We have to stop meeting like this.”

Enjolras can tell the good humor is slightly forced. “I’m not here to bother you,” he says quickly.

Grantaire is taken aback. “I never—I didn’t think you would.” Then he smiles, a more genuine smile, as if he finds something in Enjolras very amusing. “Why are you here?”

And Enjolras really should’ve considered that was a question he’d ask. “Like I told you, I don’t have fixed plans,” he says casually. “I looked up Wroclaw when you mentioned it and it seemed a good place to visit.”

“Ah.”

“You left early,” he points out, trying not to sound accusing, because Grantaire doesn’t owe him anything, least of all notices of his whereabouts. But perhaps some of his frustration slips in his tone, because Grantaire looks guilty, then away.

The easy banter they had in Prague is gone, and Enjolras misses how talkative Grantaire was there, always filling up the silences. Now they seem like high school colleagues having a chance meeting on the street, without anything to talk about.

“I’m glad I found you,” he tells Grantaire suddenly.

This shocks Grantaire into another smile. “Oh? Did you miss my soon-to-be-ruined voice?” he asks, looking more like himself.

So Enjolras goes and ruins the mood by being honest.

“I’ve been thinking about what you told me on the bridge,” he says. Grantaire’s smile drops, and he adds, “I think you’re wrong.”

This draws out a loud, disbelieving laugh from Grantaire, who suddenly looks absolutely delighted. “Please tell me you spent seven hours in a train to tell me I’m wrong.”

Enjolras will _not_ blush. “I don’t like unfinished arguments.”

“Oh my god,” Grantaire breathes out. “Who are you even?” He’s smiling widely now, then looks behind Enjolras and gestures to the dispersing crowd. “I got to play some more before they all run away. Will you wait?” he asks hesitantly. “I know a bit about Wroclaw too. We can have dinner and you can name all the ways I have upset you.”

Enjolras tries not to seem too eager as he says, “Sure,” as if he _doesn’t_ feel ten pounds lighter all of a sudden, as if listening to Grantaire sing wasn’t one of his hopes. The rest of Grantaire’s set is more cheerful than the song he caught, and the crowd goes wild when he does an acoustic version of that annoying _Call me Maybe_ song. Courfeyrac spent three months singing that unbearable song, but it’s a very different experience to have Grantaire saying the lyrics half mockingly, half seriously as he grins around the mic, shooting glances at Enjolras.

A thought strikes and he quickly takes his phone out of his pocket and starts recording, amazed the idea hadn’t occurred to him before. He doesn’t dwell on the strange sense of security the recording gives him, as if it somehow means he’ll have a piece of Grantaire to carry around.

Grantaire says his goodbyes and thanks, then kneels to save the money he got. He looks up wistfully at Enjolras as he approaches. “No one tips as well as you.”

“They don’t appreciate good music, then,” Enjolras says casually, noting the way Grantaire ducks his head at the compliment. “Where are we going?”

They walk around the city center, Grantaire pointing out buildings and statues like he did in Prague. His excitement builds as he finds Enjolras paying attention. He seems happy, and Enjolras feels an unfamiliar satisfaction when he thinks he has something to do with it. He is not often a source of other people’s joy—his friends love and believe in him, and he knows they will follow his lead, but it’s usually Courfeyrac to draw out smiles, Joly to make others feel happy, or Jehan to soothe them when they’re upset. Grantaire, however, looks at him differently.

They stop at a bar which Grantaire assures has great food, and sit outside, amidst cigarette smoke and laughter, watching a busy street come to life as nightlife begins to stir.

“You have to try this drink they make,” Grantaire tells him.

“Are you drinking?” Enjolras asks, surprised.

“No, no.” Grantaire looks down. “Prague was… a mistake, like I said. I can’t do that again.”

“Then I won’t drink in front of you.”

“Temptation is easy to resist if it’s not there,” Grantaire says, a fake cheerfulness about him. Enjolras feels he means something more than the obvious, but then Grantaire continues, after a self-deprecating laugh, “Can’t really call myself a recovering alcoholic if I only stay sober when there’s no alcohol, can I?”

Enjolras feels something flare inside him, similar to the surge of indignation that fuels some of his speeches. “See, that’s exactly it,” he says, leaning forward across the table. “You call yourself a failure, but Grantaire, you stopped drinking on your own. That’s incredible.”

“Enjolras, please—”

“No, hear me out, damn it,” he interrupts, and this isn’t exactly debate etiquette, but Grantaire makes him think more things than he can vocalize at once and he feels he needs to get them out before he loses his chance, or his courage. Grantaire, struck by his tone, obliges, and Enjolras goes on. “I get that dropping out must have felt like—like a failure of some sort,” Grantaire snorts, “but single events don’t define a person’s whole life! Just because you weren’t successful there doesn’t mean there aren’t many other things you can try. Doesn’t mean you have to run away. Even if it’s painful—”

“What do you know of pain, Enjolras?” Grantaire asks dryly.

“Maybe more than you know,” he snaps, then softens his tone. “I’ve seen how good you are, and I’m sorry but I refuse to believe you’re not capable of doing much more. I’ve never seen your art either, but who cares what your teachers said? I think you’re comfortable like this, moving around from town to town, without ever trying for more. But if you only gave it a chance, tried again, resume your art…”

“Paris holds nothing for me,” Grantaire whispers.

Enjolras feels as if he’s swallowed a rock. “What about Eponine?” he asks, after a moment.

“I’ve caused her enough grief,” Grantaire says. His eyes are piercing and serious, colder than Enjolras has seen them before. “Whatever you see when you look at me, you have no idea the things I did in… my worst moments. I’ve burned bridges all over Paris. Eponine forgave me because we share a lot of history, but if I went back I’d just find myself in her life again.”

“How the hell do you know that’s not what she wants?”

“It’s not, if she knows what’s best for herself.”

“You’re assuming you’re going to relapse,” Enjolras says point-blank.

Grantaire bristles. “That’s what I _do_. You don’t know how many times I have, all right?” He makes an impatient gesture. “This isn’t like a cold, you know, that you can just get better from. This is who I am, it’s my life. It’s always there, lurking, waiting for me to give it a chance to come back.”

“And yet you’re here, earning a living, still on your feet,” Enjolras points out. “I won’t pretend to understand what it’s like…”

“Good.”

“…but you deserve to be home. To _have_ a home. You can’t tell me you’re happy living alone like this.”

Grantaire pulls a waiter by his sleeve and orders a drink for Enjolras. When he turns back to him, he looks pale under the streetlights.

“You’re right in that you don’t understand. You can’t possibly, Enjolras,” he says, sounding sincere and regretful, and suddenly gentle. “I know you mean well, but don’t make me a crusade like one of the causes you’re so fond of.”

“You’re not a cause.”

Grantaire grins. “No? You sound like you’re about to start a charity on my behalf. ‘Donate money for the alcoholic busker so he can chase his dreams again!’ My lack of ambition was so disturbing that you crossed borders just to tell me so.” Enjolras crosses his arms, leaning back on his seat. All right, maybe he’s a little obsessive, but that’s not a bad thing. Grantaire continues before he can say so, gesturing between them across the table, “You see, the thing is, the difference between us is that you’re a doer. You see something dysfunctional and want to fix it, be it society or individuals. Me? I accept that some things can’t be fixed.” His grin becomes wider, and slightly mean. “Be it society or individuals. So I leave them alone, and try to make my peace with the shitty state of the world and my fate.”

“I don’t believe in fate.”

“I’m shocked,” Grantaire states flatly.

His drink arrives and Enjolras is so worked up about the argument he takes a long sip. It burns its way down his throat and he coughs.

Grantaire laughs. “Easy, now,” and it’s absolutely maddening.

“Here’s what’s wrong about everything you just said,” Enjolras starts, “and by the way, this is gasoline, not a fucking drink--”

He fires away and Grantaire retorts just as quickly. Enjolras won’t deny he loves a good argument, and there’s nothing better than a debate when the opposition is just as good as you. He and Grantaire speak almost on top of one another, as if there are too many things to say and not enough time, as if time is running out on them. The night becomes a blur as he empties his glass and orders another, because that thing is actually good when you get into it, while he finds himself having discussions about different subjects, not entirely sure how some of them even began.

He’s a little dizzy when Grantaire says, “Come on—Jesus, you’re such a lightweight,” but although he’s a little drunk he can perfectly stand on his own, thank you, Grantaire.

“That’s the way to the ground, dearest,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras doesn’t know if he’s blushing from the alcohol, the pet name or Grantaire’s arm suddenly around his waist, a warm touch that seems to light him up from the inside. _Fine_ , perhaps he needs a little assistance, he admits as he drapes an arm around Grantaire’s shoulder, his hand so close to that ridiculous hair that he has to close it in a fist to keep from doing something absurd, like running his fingers through it.

Grantaire asks where he’s staying, and next thing he knows, he’s lying down on a hard mattress, without any recollection of the way there, with just enough awareness to clench Grantaire’s wrist as he moves away.

“Are you going to disappear again?” Enjolras scowls, no longer trying to hide his displeasure.

Grantaire hesitates, a blurry image above him. Calloused fingers touch his face softly. “Go to sleep, Enjolras.”

His name again, gentle like a summer breeze.

*

He wakes up nauseous. Thinks, _This isn’t my bed_ , and tries to recall where he is, why he feels sick and—Grantaire. Where is Grantaire? He sits up in a rush and wow, that was a bad move.

“This is why I don’t drink,” he mumbles to the empty room, just to hear his voice and to try calming his heart. What if Grantaire left? He doesn’t want to probe his feelings too deeply, doesn’t want to dwell on the absolute terror he experiences at the fact Grantaire didn’t tell him his plans and that, if he wants, he can disappear from Enjolras’ life entirely.

His phone rings and his stomach lurches. He pretends it’s just the sudden action of leaning down to pick it up from the floor. He answers without looking at the number.

“Hello?”

“Hello, darling!” Courfeyrac greets him cheerfully. “How are you this fine morning? You weren’t still asleep, were you?” Courfeyrac actually _tuts_ him.

“Late night,” Enjolras groans.

“Ooooh,” Courfeyrac says. “Are you having a torrid affair?”

Enjolras makes a choked off noise, but is too slow to come up with a denial.

“Did you just hesitate?” asks Courfeyrac, voice becoming high-pitched. “Oh my god, tell me everything!”

Another voice arrives muffled from somewhere near Courfeyrac. “What’s going on?”

“Enjolras is having a torrid European affair,” is the answer.

Jehan screeches so loudly it reaches him.

“I am _not_ having a torrid affair,” he denies forcefully, and it’s a good thing they can’t see the blush rising up his neck.

“Hm,” Courfeyrac muses, too perceptive by half, and too familiar with Enjolras. “Are you having a non-torrid affair?”

“I’m hanging up now,” Enjolras says. The last thing he hears is Courfeyrac yelling his name.

He puts the phone down on the chair next to his bed and gets another shock when he finds a note there. There’s only one person who could it possibly have left it, and Enjolras blames the hangover for his unsteady hands.

 

 _My dear Enjolras_ , the scrawling script starts, _you once again graced my night with righteous fury. Forgive me for basking in your light, greedy human that I am. It’s always better for gods to stay away from flawed mortals, but should you seek your worshipper again, you will find him where you preside over lesser gods under the sun, though marble is a poor substitute for your complexion._

 

He reads it three times until he gleans any meaning from it, and then just splutters. “Is this a riddle?” He asks the paper. “Did you leave me a fucking riddle?!”

He calls Combeferre, who answers calmly. “Hello, Enjolras. Are you well?”

“I need your help,” he says, then groans, because the hangover kicks in again.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre is definitely concerned now.

“I’m fine, I just drank a little too much. Listen, I need you to help me figure out… something.” How does he even begin to explain this? “Er, someone left me a message, and I think it’s a… riddle.”

He can practically see Combeferre’s eyebrow rising.

“Is there any chance you won’t ask me to explain?” he asks.

“Well, if you explain the circumstances, it’ll be easier to help you solve this… riddle of yours.”

When Combeferre says it, it sounds really stupid. Damn Grantaire. Enjolras summarizes the situation the best he can, while Combeferre listens quietly.

“So he left me a note, and I think it’s hinting at where he’s going next.”

Combeferre stays silent for a long moment, then clears his throat. “Let me get this straight, you’re following a busker around Europe...”

“I’m not following him!”

“You’re following a busker around Europe,” Combeferre repeats, undeterred, “and he leaves you notes that might be riddles. Are you dating?”

“No! He just shows me around.”

“Oh?” Combeferre is all polite curiosity. “And are you in that much need of a guide?”

“Look, we talk, he tells me about art and architecture, we argue about politics, and then he drops me off. He’s so frustrating, Ferre, you have no idea, it’s like he enjoys pissing me off, and I mean, a note? With a riddle? Who does that?” Grantaire, he thinks, _Grantaire_. He’s not smiling, though, because the whole thing is ridiculous and he’s not enjoying it one bit. “Obviously I need to figure it out, or he’ll think he won.”

“Obviously,” Combeferre states diplomatically. “Well, let us hear this note of yours, then.”

“Ah.” He hesitates. “It’s erm, a little… he can be a little…”

“Just read the note, Enj. Or maybe I should put you on speaker, so everyone can enjoy it too?”

“God, no, okay, I’m reading it!” He does, and swears he hears small puffs of air on the other side of the line, almost as if Combeferre is repressing laughter. “Well? What do you think?”

“He seems to be talking about mythology, Enjolras, and you know that’s not my strong suit. Perhaps Jehan can help?”

Jehan screams from a distance, “PLEASE LET US HEAR IT!” and Courfeyrac presumably takes the phone from Combeferre, because next thing Enjolras hears his voice, “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Enjolras, for the love of god, read us your secret lover’s secret message!”

“Put Ferre back on the line _now_!”

“So that’s a no?” Combeferre asks after his cell exchanges hands. “Well, it seems he’s talking about the god of light.” He pauses a moment. “Jehan thinks it might be Apollo, god of the sun. What was that last part?” Enjolras repeats it, and Combeferre muses. “Marble—clearly he’s referring to a statue. But which one? Let me get my computer.” Enjolras waits, hearing the sound of typing and muffled voices on the background. Eventually, Combeferre returns. “Okay, actually, I think I found it. Good news: you’re coming back to France.”

 

**iii. Nice**

The statue is seven meters high and a bit over the top, in Enjolras’ opinion. People mill about in the square, wearing skirts and shorts to withstand the summer sun of Nice, but he finds Grantaire easily, sitting on the fountain that surrounds that monstrous sculpture, playing almost absentmindedly.

“ _Like ships in the night, you keep passing me by, just wasting time, trying to prove who’s right…_ ”

He doesn’t have the mic stand today, and only a handful of people are listening to him, but it doesn’t look like he’s playing to anyone in particular. When the song is over, Grantaire raises his eyes and finds Enjolras there, and his face breaks into a disbelieving smile.

“With a note like that,” Enjolras starts, sitting beside him on the fountain, “I could’ve ended up in Greece.”

“I had total confidence in you,” Grantaire states. “Besides, Greece is a beautiful place. You wouldn’t have missed much.”

He speaks before he can fully grasp what he’s saying. “I would’ve missed you.”

Grantaire’s breath hitches. “Well,” he murmurs, looking away.

“Does this mean you’re coming back to France?”

“It means I missed the beach,” Grantaire replies, avoiding the question. “Speaking of which, shall we?”

* 

Three days later, they are still in Nice. He thinks Grantaire might miss France, after all. Enjolras himself has only been away for a few days, and he welcomes the familiarity of the language and the customs of his country. Grantaire seems to be enjoying himself, is calmer than Enjolras has seen him before. They lazy about all day, and at night Grantaire sings for change. Then they go to the beach, the only part of the day when it’s finally cooler, and sit and talk while the waves lap over the sand.

“You’re close to home,” Grantaire comments.

 _So are you_ , he doesn’t reply. “I still have about a month off school.”

Grantaire turns to him sharply. “Jesus,” he breathes out. “I completely forgot you were on vacation. I… made you veer off course, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t have a course, I told you.” The truth is that Enjolras wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his free time there, sitting on a beach with Grantaire, while the musician teases him about his goals. Every once in a while, Grantaire picks up the guitar and plays something for him, and Enjolras tries to ignore how entirely contented he feels. “But you can make it up to me,” he says.

Grantaire’s eyebrows go up high. “Oh?”

“Play me an original R song.”

It’s not what Grantaire had been expecting, and he’s not quick enough to control his expression, which crumbles for a second, surprise and sadness flashing for a second. Then he sits up straighter, putting the guitar away on the sand.

“Don’t ask me that.”

“Already did.”

Grantaire’s voice is a whisper, almost swallowed by the sea. “I don’t want to disappoint you, Enjolras.”

“You won’t,” he says. It’s true. He knows that even if Grantaire’s music is not as good as he expects, even if it’s awful, to be honest, it’ll still be a reflection of Grantaire’s heart, and he will appreciate it just because of that. But he can’t quite put that into words, and wouldn’t even if he could explain himself.

“Come on,” he presses, bumping his shoulder against Grantaire’s. “You artists are so dramatic.”

“You revolutionaries are such a pain in the ass,” Grantaire bites back, but he’s smiling. He’s very close, his eyes gleaming under the full moon, and Enjolras has to swallow an impossibly strong urge to close the distance between them. They stay frozen like that for a moment, Grantaire’s smile slipping into something softer, but then he turns to his other side abruptly.

“Fine,” he says, picking up the guitar again. “You asked, keep that in mind.”

A flash of disappointment is replaced by elation when Enjolras realizes Grantaire is _actually doing this_. He starts playing a soft melody, and Enjolras is transfixed. He’s not surprised the song is a sad one, and wishes desperately that he understood the meaning behind every word of regret and sorrow. It’s unlike anything his imagination could’ve come up with and much, much better.

Grantaire doesn’t look at him while he plays, and when the song ends there is only the sound of the waves around them. The last note seems suspended in the air. Grantaire puts the guitar down and looks straight ahead, the hand between them coming down to grasp some sand.

Enjolras shudders as if awakening, realizing he’s supposed to react. “It’s beautiful,” he says. “ _Grantaire_.”

“You don’t have to say that, you know—”

“Could you not be a stubborn ass for one moment? I’m not just saying, all right? I loved it.” He lets the word float around for a moment. “I wish I understood it.”

Grantaire laughs. “Me too.”

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously, you think artists understood all the crap they write?”

“I think you understand perfectly what that was about.”

Grantaire’s smile is full of affection. “That’s because you are very perceptive, my dear Enjolras. Or because I have no defenses against you.”

Heart thudding, Enjolras tries his luck. “When did you write this?”

Grantaire looks straight at him now. Their shoulders are bumping again, and when he speaks it’s so low that Enjolras only catches it because they are so close. “After my sister died.”

Enjolras is barely breathing. Never before in his life has he been so afraid of saying the wrong thing, of not knowing how to act. He’s not known for being tactful, but now he wishes he could comfort as easily as inspire. “What happened?” he asks finally.

“Car accident. They took her to the hospital. She was still conscious, and my parents ran there. They tried to call me.” Grantaire doesn’t turn away now, looks at Enjolras as if he’s forcing himself to, or punishing himself; like he’s daring Enjolras to look away first. Enjolras doesn’t. “I was passed out drunk in an alley somewhere. She died in surgery.”Grantaire looks away, expression crumbling, and Enjolras doesn’t even have a chance to speak before he gives a short, rattled laugh. “This is very unfair, you know.”

“What?”

“You, making me bear my soul just because I can’t deny you. And I actually played you that song, which I haven’t done in about five years, while you don’t give me anything in return—”

“You’re right,” he agrees.

Grantaire freezes. “No. No, I’m sorry, you don’t have to—”

Enjolras talks over him, eager to share now that he’s found a way to give something back. “I told you about Les Amis. What I didn’t tell you is that one of our campaigns was against my father’s company.” Grantaire is no longer protesting. He waits for the rest, completely still, as if holding his breath. “I always knew he treated his employees like shit, but then I learned he’d started dismissing people over their sexuality. If was a slap in the face. I’d come out to them when I was fourteen. He never accepted it, and things had been tense for years, but when I learned about this I just… completely lost it. The thing is, on the surface it was legal—he had plenty of cause, supposedly, to fire those people, but from what they told me and what I knew of him, I knew that was bullshit. So if they couldn’t fight him with the law, I decided we could do something about it. Make some noise.” He takes a deep breath. “It got ugly really fast. He came after us for defamation, threatened to put us all in jail. The two of us only spoke with a lawyer present. But it was working, we raised awareness of the issue and the bad press was hurting business.”

“What happened?” Grantaire prompts gently. “Did you stop?”

“Yes,” he says. He tries to do as Grantaire and not look away. “When he died. It was a heart attack and, well, you can imagine what my mother thought was the cause of it.”

“Enjolras.” Grantaire doesn’t say his name like a song now, doesn’t pronounce each syllable as if he’s savoring the sound of them—he says it all at once, like he’s been holding it in and can’t help himself. “It was _not_ your fault.”

“We’ll never know, will we?” he asks dryly. He’s accepted he must live with the doubt for the rest of his life. “So my mother wouldn’t—won’t—speak to me, and I guess you could say I wasn’t dealing with it all very well. I was… getting reckless, putting the group at risk.” The shame still ate at him, that he could’ve been so careless with his friends’ lives just because he was hurting. He can’t imagine Grantaire ever doing something like that. “So Ferre and Courf suggested I get away for a while. See new things.” He smiles. “Meet new people.”

They could never have known how right they were, could never have predicted Grantaire, not when Enjolras himself could not have imagined him in a million years. Yet Grantaire is like a balsam for his wounded soul, clarity in the middle of confusion and anger.

They stay in silence for a while, then Enjolras says, “Your sister would not resent you for it.”

“That’s the worst part,” Grantaire whispers back, his voice cracking. “I wish she would have, you know? I wish she’d told me I was a worthless bastard, that I put them through hell, that she didn’t suffer whenever I ended up in the hospital, that…” He trails off, shaking his head. “But she was supportive until the end, and I wasn’t there the one time she needed me. Don’t try to make me feel better, I don’t deserve it.”

“Of course you do,” he says easily. Of this he is absolutely sure of. “You don’t have to keep away. You don’t have to keep punishing yourself—”

Grantaire scrambles up, pulling the guitar with him. “You should leave Nice, enjoy the rest of your vacation,” he says, and starts walking away.

Enjolras follows, suddenly angry, and steps forward until he can pull Grantaire by the arm. “Then take me somewhere else,” he ventures, heart hammering in his chest as he stops pretending he’s not here for this blue-eyed former Art major slash wandering musician.

“It’s like you don’t _listen_ to me,” Grantaire hisses.

“On the contrary, it’s you who don’t listen to _me_.” He crosses his arms and says, in a tone he’s been told stands no opposition, “Where are we going next?”

Grantaire flashes him an involuntary smile at the word ‘we,’ even if he still looks at Enjolras like he’s exasperating.

“Fine,” he says at last. “It’s about time you went to Italy.”

*

That night it’s neither Combeferre nor Courfeyrac that answer the phone when he calls the apartment they share—instead, Jehan greets him.

“Oh, Enjolras, hi! They’re buying food, we’re having a movie night. How is Nice?”

“Hot and sandy, but we’re leaving for Italy tomorrow.”

Jehan gives a little squeal. “ _We_?”

Enjolras sighs. He’s not usually this careless with his words, but he finds he can’t regret the slip very much. In fact, since he’s returned from that beach, Grantaire’s smile imprinted in his memory—and god, why did he ever think he’d need a video to recall him? It’s impossible that the look of him will ever fade in his mind—he’s been too agitated to be careful. It’s not unlike the feeling he gets just before a protest, or when one of their actions is successful, only somehow magnified.

“Grantaire and I are going together,” he says carefully.  

“Oh, Enj! That’s so wonderful!”

“It’s not like that, though,” he adds. “Nothing... happened.”

“Still,” Jehan says, “it’s very exciting. Tell me about him.”

There’s not enough time, he thinks, and goes with the first thing on his mind. “His eyes are very blue.”

Jehan giggles. “Oh my god, you are so gone. I can’t wait for you to come back so we can tease you endlessly about this. Wait, I’m writing that down. _His eyes are very blue_. Courf is going to piss himself.”

Enjolras laughs, but when they hang up he thinks about what Jehan has said. _When he comes back_. He’s been trying not to think too far ahead, but now anxiety mixes with that strange feeling he’s hesitant to call happiness, and suddenly he feels his standing with Grantaire is as an incredibly fragile thing.

 

**iv. Florence**

Ten days later they’re in Florence, after passing through Venice and Rome. Grantaire has been unstoppable since they’ve left Nice, proposing to Enjolras they use the rest of his vacation to see as many places as they can, and was somewhat torn as to what to choose in Italy. “You have to come back some day,” he told Enjolras, “but for now the golden trio will have to suffice.”

Most days they sightsee and Grantaire sings at night, but some nights he forgoes it entirely and they eat and walk and talk. Enjolras cedes Italy is beautiful, if a little too chaotic for his taste, and Grantaire laughs. “But the chaos is half the charm!”

“You _would_ think so,” he teases, thinking of their hostel room.

The thing is, they’re _traveling together now_ , which means sharing a room and adds a lot of awkwardness—at least on Enjolras’ part. Grantaire always asks, in broken Italian, for a room with two beds, and acts as if the situation is not at all strange.

Which it’s _not_ , or it shouldn’t be. Maybe. Enjolras has never picked up a stranger and taken him around the continent, so he’s not sure what’s the protocol. The thought occurs to him that maybe this is something Grantaire does often, but he shakes it off. Grantaire would’ve mentioned something, surely?

He discovers Grantaire is incredibly messy, that his most prized possession are a couple of old books with their spines broken, and that he’ll stay awake until 2 or 3 in the morning, but when he sleeps, he sleeps like the dead. It shouldn’t be endearing, yet when Enjolras inevitably wakes up first, he can’t help but observe him for a few moments, his thoughts muddled and tender.

Now they walk along the river Arno in comfortable silence, the Dome shining in the distance. Florence, with its bridges, reminds him of Prague, and Prague makes him think about meeting Grantaire and the strange turn his life has taken. When he took his friends’ advice—not to say _demand_ —he saw it as a chance to clear his mind, to find the balance he had lost after his father’s death. Instead, he’d found Grantaire, which only replaced one kind of confusion with another. Granted, he’d much rather think about Grantaire, even about the most obnoxious and frustrating parts of him, than about his guilt and regrets. Yet he can’t deny his travels—their travels—have created a whole new different kind of stress in his life, a new kind of pressure in his chest that will soften or heighten depending on the most trivial things, like a smile or a frown sent his way. Whenever he stops to think about it, he realizes he should probably be worried.

“You’re staring at me,” Grantaire notes, turning to face him as he continues to walk, now backwards. The riverside is lit by streetlights, which reflect on the water and turn Grantaire’s eyes a darker shade of blue. “Is it my hair? Who is it offending today?”

“All people who comb theirs, I imagine,” Enjolras fires back easily.

“Nah, they’re just jealous of my natural charms.” That manic grin again. “But seriously.”

“Do you really want to know?” Enjolras asks, and stops moving.

Grantaire follows his lead, for once, and stops as well. They’re standing a feet apart, and something in Enjolras’ tone makes his smile falter. “Of course.”

“I was thinking about Jane Austen,” he replies.

Grantaire chokes out a laugh. “Enjolras, you are a marvel. Jane Austen?”

“I’ve had this quote in my head for weeks, and was trying to figure out where I read it, but now I’m pretty sure it’s from one of her books.”

“Did you consider perhaps Googling this elusive quote?” Grantaire asks innocently.

“That’s cheating,” he explains.

“ _Jesus_ , of course it is.”

“It’s this thing Combeferre and I do,” Enjolras starts.

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“It’s for strengthening our memories! Anyway, I remembered it in the end, so you see it works.”

He waits, but Grantaire, as usual, doesn’t say what he hopes or expects.

“So you enjoy the 19th-century gals?”

He scowls. “Not really, to be honest.”

“That also doesn’t surprise me.”

“I tried giving Austen a chance because I always thought it was ridiculous that people made her books out to be only for women…”

“Ah, I knew we’d get to the reason at last—”

“And she has some very good ideas, but I wasn’t exactly thrilled.”

“Not thrilled by Mr. Darcy! I am shocked. How could real humans compare, I wonder?” He says, eyes twinkling. “I myself am more of a Bronte guy. She could make a romantic even out of you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Grantaire’s expression softens, and when he next speaks, his voice is different—careful, gentle—and Enjolras realizes he is quoting from something.

“ _I have a strange feeling with regard to you. As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I'm afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I'd take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, you'd forget me_.”

Enjolras swallows hard. His heart seems to have dropped to his stomach and climbed up his throat at the same time, something he knows is impossible but still not as baffling as Grantaire. Is it possible he doesn’t know what he’s doing to Enjolras?

But perhaps he does know, because he’s looking at Enjolras now as if he can’t believe what just came out of his mouth, eyes flitting and breathing shallow.

“You know,” Enjolras says, taking a step forward, “I think she wouldn’t even have to.”

He frames Grantaire’s face with his hands, giving him a moment to back away—but Grantaire stays put, eyes very blue and very wide now. His mouth falls open, but whether to release a breath or a word Enjolras doesn’t know, because he finally does what he’s been wanting to do for these past two weeks.

Grantaire whimpers when their lips meet but loses any hesitation quickly, deepening the kiss and putting his arms around his waist. Enjolras melts into the kiss, grabbing Grantaire’s hair—finally, _god_ —and pressing against him, so they give a few steps back and end up against the river wall. Fuck, Enjolras wouldn’t care if they _fell in_ ; he can’t imagine letting Grantaire go now that he can feel him flush against his body, touch his face, his arms, taste his mouth. He doesn’t have much experience but Grantaire definitely doesn’t seem to care, and Enjolras feels lightheaded with the confirmation he’s not alone in this.

They break apart, gasping, but Enjolras can’t bring himself to move away. Grantaire is shorter but seems to envelop him entirely with his arms, and he just wants to stay there aligned with Grantaire, to touch him and feel Grantaire’s warm breath against his face, to see up-close Grantaire’s lips curling into a breathless grin.

“En-jol-ras,” he half murmurs, half sings. His name in Grantaire’s mouth is his new favorite word. “What are you _doing_?”

Enjolras answers by kissing him again.

*

They don’t say anything else, not even on the way back, but Enjolras touches the back of Grantaire’s hand and Grantaire intertwines their fingers. They’re flushed and breathless and probably indecent when they go back to the inn, but although Enjolras’ heart is beating a dangerous rhythm and blood is rushing to a very specific part of his body, Grantaire stops him from coming nearer, putting a hand on his chest as soon as they close the door.

“I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret,” Grantaire says, face uncommonly serious in the darkened room.  

“I won’t—”

“Then let’s take it slowly. For me?”

Enjolras peers at him, suddenly assailed by doubt. A minute ago he thought he could never mistake Grantaire’s feelings, but now...

“Do you not want me?” he asks.

Grantaire gives an incredulous laugh and outlines Enjolras’ jaw with rough fingers. “Remember what I told you about temptation?” he murmurs, pushing himself on his toes to give Enjolras a quick kiss.

Enjolras is not sure he understands, but nods. He already misses Grantaire’s lips, a thought which alarms him, but not as much as the idea of being apart. He glances at the bed Grantaire’s thrown his things when they first arrived. “Can we just…”

Grantaire follows his gaze, takes his hand and pulls him. “Yeah.”

He spends the night with his arms around Grantaire, falls asleep as gentle fingers run through his hair, and can’t remember ever feeling this content.

 

**v. Munich**

Grantaire’s fingers move swiftly across the guitar as he charms a large audience in Munich’s main square.

“ _Oh no I’ve said too much, got both feet in…_ ”

He’s got the mic and amplifier again, having told Enjolras—after some mumbling and awkwardness—that he was running out of money. Enjolras was horrified he hadn’t considered that until now, and assured him it’s no hardship listening to him play. The difference from before, of course, is that now he overthinks every song choice, seeking a way into Grantaire’s heart and mind. In the end he always wonders if he’s being ridiculous to think Grantaire’s set has anything to do with him.

That night, 23 days after he left Paris and 6 days since he’s kissed Grantaire, they’re sitting on a café and Grantaire is counting the money from the day when he mentions, matter-of-factly, “You know, I didn’t really think you’d go to Nice.”

Enjolras sit up straighter, because Grantaire hasn’t said a word about what they’re doing since that night in Florence and although his kisses are pretty eloquent, Enjolras feels a growing anxiety, and craves for him to acknowledge anything about _them_.

“Really? You were surprised after you gave me a _challenge_?”

Grantaire grins. “It was pretty far from where you were. I didn’t think you’d go back to France after just having gotten out…”

This is Enjolras’ cue to say something, like _I couldn’t stop thinking about you_ or _If you hadn’t left a note I don’t know what I would’ve done next_. But he’s too slow and Grantaire seems to forget the subject, whistling instead.

“Well, thank you, Munich.” He grins and closes the box. “Okay, I’m free. What do you want to do?”

“Actually, I should probably give Ferre a call,” he says. “Do you mind?”  
“Of course not. Use my computer if you want to Skype.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He gets up, but Grantaire wraps a hand around wrist. “Hey,” he calls. “Everything okay?”

Enjolras looks down at him and just wants to kiss him until Grantaire speaks his mind, but that would be a bad idea. Probably. He’s not sure because he doesn’t do relationships, and he doesn’t know if it’s normal to never discuss how you’ve been making out for nearly a week, and so he needs his friends.

He leans for a quick kiss. “Yeah. Meet me back at the hotel?”

“Okay.”

After Florence, he wasn’t sure what to tell them, but in less than a minute Combeferre guessed something had happened. Wiith Grantaire by his side, he couldn’t exactly talk about it, so he just confirmed it and let them guess the rest. Needless to say Courfeyrac and Jehan had flooded him with messages, giving both congratulations and advice. Now he longs to talk to them alone; doesn’t have any doubt that Combeferre will give him straightforward advice that will solve all his problems.

He calls them on Skype and finds Combeferre and Courfeyrac both of at home. Seeing them is a homecoming of sorts, and although he loves… _spending time_ with Grantaire, he can’t wait to meet them again.

“Sooo, how’s it going?” Courfeyrac says meaningfully. “Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.”

Enjolras sighs. “To be honest, I don’t know.”

They frown at his tone.

“What’s going on?” Combeferre asks. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m great, except… how can you be sure that… I mean,” he makes some random gestures trying to express things he can’t find words for. “That someone… you know, you?”

Courfeyrac is shaking his head. “It’s happened at last. He’s lost his mind.”

Enjolras glares, hoping the full strength of it comes through. Combeferre—bless him, may he never leave Enjolras’ side—translates.

“I think he wants to know how can you be sure someone likes you.”

“Aaaah,” Courfeyrac drawls. “Well, then. We’re at _that_ stage.”

"Stop rubbing your hands like that," Enjolras chastises him. "It makes you look like a cartoon villain."

“Worry not, my friend,” Courfeyrac assures him. “Let the love doctors help you out. What’s hurting?”

Combeferre mouths “love doctors” to himself while staring at Courfeyrac, and Enjolras just explains the best he can.

“So he doesn’t want to go all the way, eh?”

Enjolras is blushing to the tip of his hair. “Apparently not.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you,” Combeferre points out. “In fact, it seems he does, quite a lot. Maybe he’s just nervous.”

“Grantaire? Nervous? You don’t know him, nothing unsettles him.” That’s not exactly true—he remembers a night in the beach—but when they’re together Grantaire moves with confidence, and Enjolras has no doubt he has a lot of experience.

“But Enjolras, I really think you need to talk to him about all this.” Combeferre’s expression is concerned, and he feels the urge to look away. “Nothing good can come from a lack of communication.”

“I know,” he murmurs. He’s come to that conclusion on his own, but now he knows he can’t ignore it anymore.

“And Enjolras, there’s another thing.”

“What is it?” he asks, distractedly.

His friends share a look, neither one speaking, and he sits up straighter. “Did something happen? Is the group okay? Do you need me to do something—”

“The group is fine,” Courfeyrac says carefully, “but you know classes start next week, right?”

 _Already?_ he almost blurts out, then is taken aback by the fact he could’ve lost track of time like that. He, that keeps lists and calendars and knows everyone’s schedule by heart, forgetting when his own classes resume. What has Grantaire done to him, he wonders, not for the first time.

“Will you be back?” Combeferre asks tentatively.

“Of course I’ll be back,” he answers quickly.

That’s not the _real_ question.

He paces the room and waits for Grantaire, who arrives in a flurry of excitement, saying he’s found the perfect place to take Enjolras tonight. One look at him is enough to mollify Enjolras, to make him forget all he’s been rehearsing until now. It’s so strange how a person can do that to him, to have that sort of power over him. He’s never chased a relationship, never envied those friends of his who had them, but now he understands the appeal, both physical and emotional and, well—he’s never been one to back down from a challenge. Why should he not have this? He’ll find a way to compartmentalize, to do all he needs to go, to be the leader of Les Amis and still enjoy Grantaire by his side. He will.

“I spoke to Ferre,” he says.

Grantaire is on his knees, pulling wrinkled shirts from his backpack, who’s on the floor next to the only bed. “Oh, yeah? Everything good?”

“My classes start next week.”

Grantaire stills immediately, a hand still inside the backpack. Then he half turns to Enjolras, eyes not quite meeting his. “You’re leaving?” His voice is carefully blank.

“Of course,” Enjolras says automatically, but regrets it when it makes Grantaire get on his feet and move the other way. “R, I can’t miss my classes,” he points out.

“Of course not,” Grantaire replies, pushing a hand through his hair. Then he stops pacing and turns to Enjolras, finally. His expression is still controlled but his voice is gentler. “Of course not. You have things to do. So, when are you leaving?”

He sounds like he’s discussing a business meeting or some other thing entirely unrelated to him, and Enjolras feels a spark of anger bubbling underneath the fear that’s gripping his heart. “I suppose Saturday would be better, so I can rest a day before going back,” he says. They look at each other for a moment and Enjolras realizes his hands are clenched into fists. “So?”

“So what?” Grantaire fires back. The air between them is tense with unspoken words, and Enjolras is tired of it.

“ _So_ ,” he says, “are you coming with me or not?”

Grantaire looks genuinely taken aback. “What?” he murmurs.

“You heard me.” Grantaire just stares at him, and Enjolras wants to grab his shoulders and shake answers and promises out of him, and make him smile again. “Well?”

“Enjolras, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to say you will.”

“I can’t go to Paris.”

And he knows he sounds like every stupid movie he ever sneered at, but maybe there’s a reason for clichés. “Can’t or _won’t_?”

“You know my reasons,” Grantaire says, steely. “My life is this,” he gestures around the room. “You knew who I am.”

“Your _reasons_.” He can’t help his tone rising. “We’ve talked about your reasons. There’s nothing keeping you from coming back, nothing except your own fears.” Grantaire clenches his jaw but it’s not in Enjolras to back away, it never has been, and he steps forward and presses, “You know it’s true! You know you’re afraid of messing up, but you can’t keep living like this!”

“Why the hell not?” And here they are again, their voices raised, like a night which seems long gone, a night which ended with Grantaire’s hand on his face, when Enjolras thought, _I wish you’d stay_. But Grantaire isn’t sweet now, he isn’t pulling punches and he isn’t amused. “You need to stop telling people how to live their lives!”

“Don’t turn this against me! You know it’s true. Give me one real reason you can’t go to Paris, _one reason_ that’s not you doubting yourself, and I’ll accept that you have to stay away.” Grantaire just stares, and it just pushes him forward. “You can’t, because you’ve been telling yourself all kinds of lies. But Grantaire, you _can_ go back, I swear nothing bad is going to happen. Eponine probably wants you to, and your parents, and—and so do I. I want you to come with me, I want you to be near.” His heartbeat is like a drum in his ears and a cold panic is pooling in his stomach, because Grantaire’s expression just turns more and more distant and it’s like he’s drifting away from Enjolras with every word, even as Enjolras is begging, perhaps for the first time in his life. He tries to sound cold, but probably looks desperate. “Did you even—do you even give a shit about me?”

This, at least, causes a reaction. Grantaire looks away. “You know I do.”

“Do I?” Enjolras laughs humorlessly. “Clearly not—” Not as much as I do about you, he thinks, and _fuck_. Fuck, he’s been afraid but he didn’t really expect confirmation and it hurts, it hurts like nothing has ever hurt before, and he fuels the angry part of him because it’s the only part that can find any words. “Is this why you don’t want to have sex with me?” he sneers. “Because you knew you were going to leave?”

Grantaire is staring out of the window.

“Technically,” he says, “ _you’re_ going to leave.”

“ _Fuck_ you!” Enjolras shouts. Grantaire flinches and he’s glad. He doesn’t care who hears him shouting nor what he looks like. He wants to grab Grantaire by the shoulders and turn him and make him say everything he’s thinking, the truth. “I’ve been following you around like—I don’t even know, if one of my friends had been acting like this I’d think they’d lost their minds. Do you think this is a regular thing for me? Do you think I just do this with anyone? I’ve told you things some of my _friends_ don’t even know, you have to know—you _have_ to know how I feel about you. And you just decided not to say anything? Just lead me around and then say ‘goodbye, have a nice trip and forget all about me’? Grantaire, _look at me_!”

He does, eyes very blue and very sad and voice rough. “I care. You don’t even know how much, Enjolras, which is _exactly_ why I’m not going back with you.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Enjolras—”

“What, you’re protecting me from yourself? Give me some credit!”

“I do, you think I don’t know you’re serious?” Grantaire moves closer but not too close, tone beseeching and urgent. “I know I never should’ve let things go this far and I’m sorry, more than you’ll ever know, but I can’t let it go any further. You’ll forget me sooner than you think, darling,” he adds, opening a faltering smile. Enjolras doesn’t think he could smile for his life right now. Hates Grantaire for calling him darling; wants him to do it again.

“R,” he tries, one last time. It was how Enjolras first knew him, what he shouts when Grantaire approaches silently and surprises him, what he sighs in Grantaire’s ear when his lips are trailing down Enjolras’ neck. “I _am_ serious. _Trust_ me. I know you, I promise I won’t let you hurt me and I won’t let you hurt yourself. I—I followed you until now, but this isn’t a life, not really. It’s just running away, and there’s _so much_ you could have. Why can’t you trust me? Follow _me_ , just for once.” Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but he thinks he sees hesitation in Grantaire. Quickly, he adds, “You don’t have to come with me, just come when you’re ready. You know where I study, where I live, where I take my coffee. You _know_ where to find me.”

Grantaire looks at him for a long moment, then says, “I need to think.” He gestures towards the door. “Can you give me some time?”

Enjolras can’t think of anything he wants less than to have Grantaire leave, but he knows he can’t force him, knows it would probably be worse if he tried to make him stay. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll be here.”

Grantaire nods, looks at him for a long moment, and leaves.

*

Enjolras shudders awake, then devises Grantaire’s outline in the dark room and realizes it was Grantaire who woke him, trailing fingers down his face, sitting next to him on the bed.

“You took so long,” he mumbles. He didn’t mean to sleep, but apparently you can worry yourself to exhaustion. “R.”

“Shh,” Grantaire says. He leans down to kiss Enjolras softly, and Enjolras sighs in his mouth. “Go to sleep.”

When Enjolras wakes again, he’s gone.

 

**vi. Paris**

“...and we’ve managed to talk to some of the people who occupied the building, and got their statements. Needless to say, it’s not quite what the police are saying.”

Enjolras nods. “This is great, Courf. All of you. You’ve been active while…” He clears his throat. “Anyway, we need to capitalize on the moment, while the media’s still focused on this. Ideas?”

They’re at the Musain, the whole group together for the first time since he came back a few days ago, and he forces himself to think only of their next projects. Although he received a warm welcome upon entering the Musain, the meeting is subdued, a strange silence surrounding his words, and he imagines Courfeyrac has mentioned something. It angers, saddens and shames him to see how much all of them accomplished while he was city-hopping with Grantaire, and for the hundredth time since coming back he tells himself he will focus on the group now, clear his mind of Grantaire, and be just as he was before. It hasn’t worked yet, but Enjolras is persistent.

The meeting ends and his heart is lighter, nonetheless. Being home and around his friends, that wave of familiarity that greets him at every corner and every smile, is better than any trip could be. He tells himself one day it will be enough.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac approach him after the meeting, keeping close, as they’ve been doing for the past few days. Enjolras is thankful and tries not to remember how they found him, back from Germany and crashed on the couch, in indescribable anguish. He never thought he would be prey to such emotions, have the kind of over the top break-up that leaves characters in movies wallowing and eating pints of ice cream, yet there was. _But no more_ , he decided.

“Joly and Bossuet are organizing a movie night at theirs,” Courfeyrac says. “Do you want to go?”

“Sure,” Enjolras says. He’s decided it’s best to be around people, to let the real world occupy his mind, than staying alone. It’s annoying. He’s never had a problem with being alone before, in fact, enjoyed the solitude and the time it gave him to think, but now all he seems able to do when he’s not engaged in some sort of activity is consider Grantaire. “By the way, who was that girl?”

A young woman was sitting in the back with Bahorel, watching the meeting with intelligent, if hard eyes, and slunk off before Enjolras could approach her. Meetings are open to anyone who cared to join, but usually it’s just the regular group. She didn’t speak but seemed interested in what they were saying, and Enjolras thinks talking to a newcomer would be a good distraction for him now.

“No one knows, but apparently she and Bahorel hit it off,” Courfeyrac explains. “She’s not a student, though, which means all that Facebook promotion must be working, ey? Despite your skepticism,” he adds.

“All right, I’ll give you that,” Enjolras cedes, rolling his eyes.

It’s wonderfully familiar, and he thinks, _this isn’t so bad_. He can do this. He’s not going to lay down and let his feelings get in the way of doing everything he loves and cares about—that’d be ridiculous. For a moment, it seems as if everything that happened in the past month has been a dream, and like a dream, he’s sure it will eventually fade from memory.

*

It occurs to him that if something happened to Grantaire, he would never know. The thought stops him in the middle of writing a sentence for the first paper of the semester, the reality of missing Grantaire crashing over him with overwhelming force. Almost beside himself, he grabs his phone and plays a video he’s been avoiding—the video taken in Wroclaw, when he wasn’t sure why he was so drawn to Grantaire. When things were simpler.

It’s been a week, there’s been no sign of Grantaire, and Enjolras is alone at home when he realizes this pain isn’t going anywhere soon.

*

“Do you want to talk about it?” Combeferre asks gently.

“I don’t know,” he says, leaning back on the bench. It’s a cold Saturday and he’s been whisked away for a walk on the park. Now he sips his coffee and wonders, “Which one is better?”

“Only you can know,” Combeferre answers carefully, “but I think it’s always better to get things out of our chests.”

Enjolras smirks. “You should wear that t-shirt Courf gave you.”

“Trust me, I’m a doctor?”

He nods, then his good mood vanishes, as it so often does these days. “I think…” he starts, then shakes his head, remembering there’s a certain shade of blue he still can’t look at, and laughs quietly. “I love him,” he admits.

“I know.”

“Can you love someone after a month? Am I just being ridiculous—?”

“Of course you can,” Combeferre says.

“Oh? Are you suddenly a romantic?”

“No, but you answered your own question just now. Only you know how you feel.” The wind hits them, making their collars flap and Enjolras enjoys the first sharp hints of cold, the way it seems to echo his emotions. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Enjolras.”

He nods. “I wish I knew—” Why that wasn’t enough, why Grantaire couldn’t have followed him, where he went wrong. “So many things. I hate not knowing.”

“Sometimes people just aren’t ready, Enjolras. I know I wasn’t there, but I think… I think he might have returned the sentiment.”

“I don’t know if that’s better or worse,” Enjolras says.

*

He keeps moving because he can’t do otherwise, because he’s never stayed still in his life and although he feels helpless, he doesn’t have to feel defeated. He goes to class, organizes meetings and protests, even calls his mother for one awkward and stilted conversation, and hopes that one day all of it will feel like something other than a mere distraction.

*

Two weeks after he last sees Grantaire, they end a meeting early for reasons of general dispersion: Joly and Bossuet can’t stop talking about this girl they’ve met; Marius and Cosette are being annoyingly in love; Bahorel has gotten Courfeyrac to accept a drinking game and they’re ordering shots; and even Combeferre seems to have fallen prey to their cheerful mood, and is engaged in conversation with Feuilly. Enjolras sits and watches them, unable to stop his mind from straying.

“Hello,” says Jehan, plopping down beside him. “What are you thinking about?”  
The answer is too pathetic to tell, not to mention impossible—how could he ever describe lying in bed with Grantaire, the way he remembers in excruciating detail the way Grantaire’s eyes would crinkle when he smiled, and how it feels to have had that and lost it?

“Next week’s protest,” he lies.

Jehan obviously doesn’t believe him, and looks at him sadly. “If you want, we can do something this weekend.”

Enjolras is about to reply when a single note reaches him through the closed café windows. He chokes on whatever he was going to say, and turns his eyes towards the sound. No, he didn’t imagine it—there’s a soft melody being played on guitar, and he’s up and out of his chair before he knows what he’s doing.

“Enjolras?” someone calls from a distance.

He opens the latch on the window and is greeted with the sight of the small square the Musain overlooks, a pocket of green in the city from which a song float up to him—and where, playing softly, Grantaire stands behind a mic stand.

Enjolras would like to say he was indignant, angry or unaffected at the sight, but the truth is there is nothing in him but overwhelming relief.

Grantaire raises his eyes and spots him. Enjolras breathes in sharply, feels his blood rushing as if it’s only just awakened and the world slotting into place.

“ _I keep a close watch on this heart of mine, I keep my eyes wide open all time…_ ”

He senses the other crowding behind him and hears their exclamations, but Grantaire’s voice is all he can hear, that and his heartbeat in his ears. He looks Grantaire over, recognizes the t-shirt and the jeans, remembers what they feel like to the touch. His hair is whipped by the wind and his face is serious as he sings, saying every word to Enjolras and Enjolras alone.

“Oh my god!” he’s vaguely aware of Jehan saying. “Why have you never serenated me?”

“Ouch!” Courfeyrac yelps. “I don’t play guitar!”

“That’s no excuse!”

“Shut up!” Joly yells.

Enjolras turns around and makes way through them, feet flying down the stairs and out into the street, just as Grantaire is finishing the song, the words everything Enjolras hoped to hear from him. The final note dies and Grantaire looks at him, fearful and pleading, and Enjolras moves forward, walking slowly now, taking him in with every step—the lines in his face, the wrinkles in his clothes, the glimmer in his eyes.

“Two weeks,” he says hoarsely as he comes to a halt in front of Grantaire. “Two weeks!”

“I know,” Grantaire chokes out. “I know, darling, I’m sorry—”

And how dare him call Enjolras darling, how _dare_ he? He takes a step forward. He’s shaking but he’s been through hell these last two weeks and he won’t give in so easily this time, not without being sure. “You’re staying?”

Grantaire nods. “I wasn’t going to, but then Eponine yelled at me until I got my head out of my ass. She came to see you, you know,” Grantaire adds, with a smile.

“Wha—” Then he remembers the girl from the week before, silently watching. Was she judging Enjolras then? “What did she say?”

“That you looked miserable,” Grantaire says quietly. “I’m so sorry, Enj, I really am. I still think you could do infinitely better but, if you still want me, I’m willing to try. To stay. I’ve found a cheap place in Paris and an actual job, imagine that!” He grins. “So you know I mean it.”

Enjolras’ mind is reeling; he is too elated and confused at the same time, emotions warring inside him. “I don’t want you to have a real job, though,” he says, “I don’t want you to quit what you love just to stay here—”

Grantaire is laughing outright now. “I won’t, I swear, but I have to pay rent, and anyway can’t we talk about that later? You’re killing me with the suspense here.” Enjolras stares at him, uncomprehending, and Grantaire asks, in an urgent breath, “Am I forgiven?”

And _oh_ , Enjolras thinks. He thought the answer was obvious.

His hands move on their own, on memory and an urgent desire, and Enjolras crashes their lips together. If he was paying attention, he might have noticed the cheers coming from a nearby window—but, for now, Grantaire is in his arms again, Paris seems to have come back to life, and there is nothing else he needs.      

**Author's Note:**

> Grantaire sings: [Fast Car by Tracy Chapman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uTIB10eQnA0); [Like a Hobo, by Charlie Winston](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9nOd5_Bdc8I); [I Don’t Know by Lisa Hannigan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nmmjoc6gLsM); [Wish You Were Here, by Pink Floyd](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NavVfpp-1L4); [Call me Maybe, the Ben Howard version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sPU8V-nvUEk); [Ships in the Night, by Mat Kearney](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BCkfTCjF8SM); [Tourist, by Yuna](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dD7A-UsSFB8); and [Walk the Line, by Johnny Cash](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KHF9itPLUo4).
> 
> The line which Enjolras doesn’t quite remember, of course, is from _Pride and Prejudice_ : “I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”, and Grantaire quotes _Jane Eyre_.
> 
> Thank you Trick for the encouragement and suggestions, and thank you for reading! 


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